


Heavy-Handed

by Aard_Rinn



Series: Writ Large [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: But Not Crack, Festival of Mortilus, Festival of the FIve, Gen, Humor, Matchmaking, Megatron is subtle like a brick, Metrotitans, Mistakes being made, No Cybertronian Civil War, Oh god its expanding, Pre-Cybertronian Civil War, Rivalry, help me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24172225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aard_Rinn/pseuds/Aard_Rinn
Summary: No titan has ever entered the Festivals of the Five - let alone the vicious combats held to honor Mortilus, the Death-Bringer.No titan, until Metroplex.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Series: Writ Large [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744648
Comments: 51
Kudos: 86
Collections: The Festival Of The Five





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [White Aster (white_aster)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/gifts), [SlimReaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/gifts), [dragonofdispair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Champion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703849) by [White Aster (white_aster)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster). 
  * Inspired by [Risk It All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653288) by [SlimReaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/pseuds/SlimReaper). 
  * Inspired by [Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4757450) by [dragonofdispair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair). 



“Lord Prime, you cannot intend to permit this!” 

“What?” Optimus turns his helm to the mech storming through the door to his audience chamber, distracted, momentarily, from the counselor trying to persuade him to… something. The specifics drift away, merging with a thousand similar arguments, as he cycles his optics at the furious blue-plated mech brandishing a datapad at him.

Behind him, Optimus can feel Ironhide tense, and at the door, two members of his Vanguard - Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, if he recognizes the vivid paint - already have weapons out.

But the blue mech - a counselor, Kaonite, Celsius, if he remembers correctly, which upon reflection he doesn’t guarantee - stops well short of him, bowing his head in the most cursory way before looking back up. “Surely you cannot intend to allow Metroplex to enter the Festival of Mortilus!”

“What?”

The datapad is thrust forward, the gesture almost an insult - but Optimus reaches out anyways, confused enough to overlook it. It’s a list - the entrants to the Festival of Mortilus - and there, freshly-registered, is Metroplex.

“Our Metroplex?” It’s all he can think to say, and he has to say something. “Counselor, are you sure that this means… Metroplex? And not some other mech? You know what they say, all the best names -”

“There-is-no-other-Metroplex!” The counselor almost hisses it, and Ironhide shifts behind him again, field sparkling with temper at the disrespect - but Optimus can see the near-panic in the blue mech’s optics, and holds him back with a gesture. “Lord Prime, surely this is not going to be permitted! Even allowing him to enter - it must have been in error, surely there is some rule -”

The rest of the council buzzes with nervous energy. Confirming, consulting, speaking in hushed tones - it’s obvious that whatever had been planned for the joor has been overwritten by the sudden metrotitan in the room.

Optimus hesitates. 

“Ironhide, please fetch Celcius -” 

“ _Cepheus -_ ”

“Please fetch _Cepheus_ a chair.” Ironhide’s engine gives a low rumble - too deep to be heard beyond Optimus - as he turns to obey. “All of you, quiet. What is wrong with Metroplex’s entry to the Festival? It is his right -” he pauses, giving the word more weight, “- his _right_ , as a Cybertronian, and a mech sparked beneath the Guiding Hand, to compete. He has form, and wisdom, and intellect, and he was given life and will receive death like any of us. Why can he not enter?”

A half-dozen voices rise up -

“There’s no precedent, it can’t possibly -”

“- metrotitan can’t _abandon_ his city -”

“- shameful, dishonors the name of Mortilus -”

“- Kaon cannot, Scorponok will not tolerate -”

“- can’t possibly accommodate a metrotitan -”

“- going to kill everyone!”

Optimus resists, as hard as he can, the urge to press his fingers to his suddenly aching helm. It will do him no good here - there is nothing he can say that will do him any good, not with the council so unified against him. There is only one option left, but it is the best one.

“Enough!”

He rises to his pedes, raising a hand for quiet.

“I will speak to Metroplex.” The counselors fall silent, optics averting respectfully despite themselves. It is not often that he speaks to them like this - as subjects, rather than equals - but for Metroplex’s sake, it comes easily. “ _I_ will speak to Metroplex, and see if some agreement can be reached - but he is a mech like any other, and _you_ will abide by his decision in this.” 

The counselors seem pleased - there’s a contented hum to the room, now. Despite his tone, they think they’ve won - and ordinarily, they would be right. Metroplex is a good friend. Kind. Loyal. Were Optimus to ask him to drop this, to withdraw from the Festival, he would.

A pity for them, then, that he has no intention of asking.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The approach to Metroplex’s chamber - the Metrotitan’s spark - is quiet, guards having cleared the halls ahead of him as they always do, when the Prime wishes to speak to his City. Only a handful of counselors have made the journey with him, but they are careful to trail behind, not interrupting their Prime’s thoughts. Optimus, for his part, is thinking no great thoughts in particular - though the silence earned with a furrowed brow is a blessing.

The gilded doors to the titan’s outer chambers swing open, guards stepping aside to grant passage.

The counsellors fall away, here, taking seats in carefully prepared lounges or standing aside to speak in hushed tones. It is a rare privilege, to accompany the Prime even this far - none would dare imply that they should be allowed to follow him into the innermost chambers. 

The first doorway petals open as he steps past them, irising shut behind him with a hush. Optimus takes a moment, in the privacy, to vent a sigh, dipping his hands into the open basin of solvent ahead of him, dabbing them dry. Here, between Metroplex and the world outside, is the most privacy he ever has - no cameras, no guards, no spies.

He takes a moment to smile warmly before he enters the spark chamber proper. There’s no point in showing his friend that the council has already upset him.

“My Prime.”

Metroplex’s voice hits him in a rush, warm and encompassing. The titan’s spark beats steadily ahead, a tower of bright blue lightning barely caged behind the thick crystal surrounding it - as Optimus steps forward, the pulse of a field far vaster and more powerful than even a Prime’s fills him, dragging his own spark into time.

If it were not Metroplex, it would be terrifying. Here, in this guarded core, it is the closest thing to safety in the world.

“Metroplex. I’m glad to see you are well.”

Metroplex hums affirmation, a gentle note of the pleasure of being greeted, of speaking to another mech at all. He does not grow lonely - or so he answered Optimus’ question, when the new Prime had, hesitantly, asked - but there is a joy in being acknowledged, here in his own heart. “They have sent you to tell me to withdraw from the Festival, then.”

Optimus gives him a chagrined smile, knowing that Metroplex’s cameras will see it. “They have. You heard them arguing, then?”

“No.” The Titan’s voice rolls, slow but inevitable, like a tide. “I have not turned my attention to the council chambers this orn. It was expected. They would not wish me to enter.”

Optimus laughs. “Fair enough.”

“...Did you intend to ask me to withdraw?” Metroplex sounds… as hesitant as a cityformer can sound. It is not particularly hesitant.

“Not really. They overstep themselves. They act like you… well, they treat you like they do any other mech, I guess. Like you’re something to be used. They don’t even act like you’re a person, sometimes.”

“Many do not. I do not mind, particularly. If they thought of me as a person, they might seek me out.” Heavy in the words is the grinning implication that Metroplex would rather be forgotten. “If you were to find a small minibot to recharge in your trailer, perhaps you would be given peace, as well.”

Optimus grins back. “Bumblebee might be willing, but Jazz would never forgive me for stealing his agent.”

“Unfortunate.” Metroplex settles around him, field content. He hums thoughtfully for a few moments - a long thought, for a processor the size of a city’s. “I will not withdraw. It is my right, to enter.”

“It is. They’ll fuss and complain, but I’ll get them to stop somehow. The divine right of every Cybertronian, and all that.” Prime pats the console before him, comfortingly. Here, surrounded by the metrotitan’s field, he can tell the other mech is not offended - that Metroplex doesn’t blame him for the council’s unthinking cruelties. “They want to know - _I_ would like to know, if you’re willing to tell me - why you’re entering.”

Metroplex regards him curiously, field still affectionate but suddenly guarded. “Why?” He hesitates, experience making him wary of the council. “It is not traditional, to speak of it.”

“I’m sure they wish to bribe you. Or to offer it, to make you withdraw.” There’s no point in trying to conceal his suspicions, not when Metroplex has millions of vorns experience with mechs attempting to manipulate him. “I… I’d like to know because I’m your friend, Metroplex - even if you don’t want me to tell them. Is there something you need? You do so much for us - I don’t want to think that there’s something you feel you can only get by winning this fight. Ask, and if it’s in my power as Prime, you’ll have it - I, we, owe you that.”

Metroplex is silent for a moment. When he speaks, there is soft amusement in his voice. “You are a good friend, my Prime. But you will not give me this.”

He waits only a moment before continuing, doesn’t give Optimus a chance to voice the protestation he has opened his mouth to offer.

“I wish to punch Scorponok.”

The protestation dies in Optimus’ throat as he chokes on his own vocalizer, giving out a garbled cough. One of Metroplex’s data cables rises, rubbing carefully at his back as the wide-opticked Prime struggles to recover.

“What?”

“He and I have been rivals for many millennia. Recently, he has grown tiresome. I wish to punch him - perhaps several times. I believe it will prove satisfying.” Metroplex’s field gives a tremor of pleasure at the thought. “Of course, I cannot leave my obligation to Iacon to meet with him and settle this - no more than he can leave Kaon. However, during the festival…”

Optimus has a sudden vision of it. “You’ll be right there. It’s enough warning - the council will have to permit you to rise up. And one way or another, you’ll be able to… settle things.”  
Metroplex’s spark hums behind him.

“It is a very good plan. He knows my intent - if he is not a coward, he will enter the Festival, and I will fight him there. Everyone will see.” There’s smug satisfaction in Metroplex’s voice at the thought. “If he is afraid, I will win the Festival, and demand from you the right to fight him, and then challenge him. He will not have a choice but to face me.”

Metroplex pauses again, as if considering something. “It is traditional.” He sounds almost defensive, and a series of datafiles ping into Optimus’ mailbox, one after the other - soldiers, even military commanders, demanding of past Primes the right to challenge rivals, free of the restrictions of military law.

Optimus spends a moment politely reviewing the footage. “It is.” Metroplex lets out another warm hum, pleased at the agreement. “And I’m pleased that you have found this way to force the council’s hand, friend. But, ah…”

He trails off for a moment, steeling himself to continue. “I have one concern.”

Metroplex’s field pushes him on, the metrotitan not withdrawing as he considers his smaller companion. “Oh?”

“Ah… the other contestants, Metroplex?”

There’s a sudden flash of surprised good humor at that, and the warm rumble that Optimus knows is the titan’s laughter, all around him. “It is alright, my Prime. I do not think there are any of them who will be a challenge. Perhaps to Scorponok -” and there’s definitely an unkindness in the mocking way he names the other metrotitan, a vicious undertone utterly unlike his usual kindness, “- but I would very much enjoy watching, if he were to lose to one of the other contestants. And I could still demand challenge, after.”

The metrotitan’s slow words are informative - but not the answer he was looking for. “I know they won’t be a threat to _you_ , Metroplex - but how do you plan to fight _them?_ ”

The field around him halts, still close but swirling in place, as if Metroplex - not as if he hadn’t considered it, but as if he isn’t sure why Optimus is asking, as if the answer should be obvious. “I will pick them up, Prime. You are - I do not mean any offense - but you are all very small. I only need catch them, and they will submit.”

A warm flicker as his field resumes. “I do not think it will be very hard.”

It’s… comforting, to know that Metroplex’s newfound bloodlust doesn’t extend beyond his rivalry with the other cityformer - a relief, when any desire to harm a mech that might be one of his citizens is considered the primary indicator of a massive, building glitch. The sparks called to a cityformer’s frame are ancient, placid things, wise beyond eons and bound to the mechs that call them home - one turning to real harm against its residents, even within the constraints of ritual combat, bodes the worst sort of ill. But the rivalries of the metrotitans are legendary - literal legends - and perhaps it should be no surprise that one has finally bubbled to the surface in such a fashion.

“I’ll speak to the council.” Optimus vents a sigh, patting the console again. “They have no right to try to deny you this - I won’t let them. I’ll make arrangements - get in touch with the building crews.”

Metroplex’s field contracts, just a touch - embarrassment. “Please apologize to Grapple and Hoist for me. I know this will not be easy for them to accommodate.”

“They’ll enjoy the challenge.” Optimus is quick to let reassurance fill his voice. “The Constructicons will too. They’ll have plenty of time to figure something out.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He emerges from the chamber to the wide optics of his counselors. The outer chambers are shielded - there is no way for anyone in them to hear the private conversations between Prime and City - but the spark of a metrotitan is such that the echoes of his emotions can be felt even beyond the shielded shell. Optimus has never sat out here while another spoke to Metroplex, but he has been told that laughter, anger, concern rumble like thunder against the walls.

The handful of councilors certainly look shaken enough by the experience.

“Metroplex will fight in the Festival of Mortilus.” He raises his hands for silence amid the sudden, outraged voices that greet his declaration. “He is as much a Cybertronian as any other. It is his right, sacred in the optics of Mortilus and of Primus. To deny him that -” and he casts a glare of judgement across the room, not speaking as mere leader but as Voice of Primus, “- would be heresy.”

The councilors are silent. Cepheus looks close to weeping - and Optimus can hardly blame him, with Scorponok at the core of his state, and two metrotitans soon to battle outside his city’s walls - but no one argues as he brushes past them.

As he strides from the room, nervous conversation bubbling up behind him in thin ripples, Optimus lets himself smile. 

One way or another, he can give his friend this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I understood what Open, Unmoderated meant (ie me being allowed to drop this off in this collection w/o hunting anyone down.) HMU if it wasn't, I'll move it somewhere else!
> 
> Ahahahahaha! I was reading White_Aster's gorgeous fic Champion, and in it there's a scene where Soundwave beats up Onslaught! Now, that was delightful enough, but then I got to thinking - what about Omega Supreme? And then Aster brought up the cityformers, and I realized that I was fucked. Still working on Getting Out Alive, 18k words into a Jazz-as-Batman thing I've been working on for the last two weeks, and LO AND BEHOLD now I'm banging this shit out. Fuck.
> 
> This isn't gonna be a full FotF fic - I've got no real interest in writing combat - but I am gonna do one or two more chapters focused on different characters. I'm thinking one featuring Drift - the unfortunate first-round opponent of Metroplex - and IDK but I probably have at least one dumb idea stashed away somewhere after that. I don't know, I'm not into it enough to write the whole thing but I do think it would be funny to see Metroplex - who again, reeeeeeeeeeeally doesn't want to hurt anybody but Scorponok a bit - go up against somebody like Sunstorm, who 100% is into this shit for the GLORY OF MORTILUS and will be super-offended if Metroplex doesn't give him a real ass-whupping, but I don't really know how I'd shape it.
> 
> Anyways, I'm pretty ok with how this came out for such a quick fic, but feel free to leave any suggestions or stuff I missed in editing in the comments! I only spent like three hours on this so it's w/e, you're not gonna smoke me off! :D


	2. Seventy-Four To One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift has his own reasons for entering the Festival of Mortilus - and faith in the odds. Right up until he doesn't, anymore.
> 
> It's a stressful day to be Drift.

Perceptor’s optics are wide, and hurt, and betrayed as he stares up at the lists. Wide and hurt and betrayed - and frightened.

“Seventy-four to one odds, Drift!” He snarls the name like a curse, and Drift flinches back, battered by a scared and furious field. Perceptor rounds on him. “ _It’ll be fine, Perceptor, what are the odds_ \- seventy! Four! To! One! Drift!”

Drift opens his mouth as if to respond - but he can’t say anything, can’t think of anything to say except for the soft nervous whine that manages to escape as he stares up at the match list.

Frag.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

“You should withdraw.”

Perceptor sits on his chair aboard the _Xanthium_ with his arms crossed, half-glaring at Drift. The swordsmech ignores him - stauchly - as he flicks through his datapad, poring over the news reports flooding the datanet: Metroplex - the metrotitan, six hundred feet of metal and glass - entering the Festival of the Five. The Festival of Mortilus.

It’s… not a great sign for Drift’s odds.

Especially not with the latest updates.

“You are going to get killed!” Perceptor’s voice increases in volume, the sniper not content to be ignored. “You can’t possibly think - there’s no amount of _gods favoring you_ that will let you take on a cityformer, Drift!”

“Two.” Drift assiduously avoids optic contact. 

“What?” Perceptor falters in his building rant - the only effective way to draw him off is to cut him down before he can build up steam. “What?”

“I would have to be able to take on two cityformers, Perceptor. Unless I got lucky, and they met in a round before me. Scorponok’s just put his name on the list, too.” Drift does everything he can to avoid giving the nervous grin he wants to. It’s not going to be a good festival.

“Two.” Perceptor’s voice and field go flat. “You’ll die, Drift. They’re - I know you’ve never seen a metrotitan risen, Drift. They’re massive - they turn into _cities!_ ”

“You can’t kill people during the Festival, Perceptor.” He pauses, hesitant, for just a moment. “Not on purpose.” Not that that’s stopped it, historically, but he doesn’t say that.

“They won’t have to kill you on purpose!” Perceptor’s voice is still flat, but the volume is rising. “They won’t have to do anything at all! They’ll probably not even notice - just step on the whole crowd of competition and go straight to slagging each other! They turn into _cities!_ ”

“You’ve said.”

“I’ll say it again!” Shouting, now. “They turn into _cities!_ They will crush you! They won’t even notice! Even Ratchet won’t be able to do anything - your Act of Disclosure will be giving him an intimate knowledge of what you look like _flat_ once he’s done peeling you off the arena!”

Drift can’t help perking up at the mention of the medic - just a little flick of his finials, barely there, but it’s enough for Perceptor to notice, and groan with disgust. 

“Springer. Do something about this!”

The green rotary looks from Perceptor to Drift and back. “Like what, Perce? He’s already entered. Be a shame to back out now.” 

He glances back at Drift with a shrug. “Besides, no offense, but there’s no way you’re gonna make it, mech. You’re good with swords, but the sort of mechs who enter the Festival for Mortilus… I attended a couple, back when I was working out of Kaon full-time. You’re gonna get your aft handed to you a dozen times over if you make it out of your first fight.”

Drift pouts - just a little - but it’s true, and he knows it. Knew it when he entered. “It’s not about winning. Just… gonna give it a shot, this year. See how it is. Maybe I’ll train for it - if I think I’ll have a shot in fifty vorns.” He shrugs. “There’s always the Primal Races, if I’m really sure I can’t make Mortilus.”

“You won’t make anything, if a metrotitan steps on you in the first round!” Perceptor gestures futilely. “You’ll make an - an attractive folding screen for Ratchet’s medbay, if he cares enough to crimp you and stick you in a frame!”

“I’m not going to have to fight a metrotitan in the first round, Perceptor.” Drift raises his hands, finally looking over at the other mech. “One hundred forty eight entrants so far, Perce. That means it’s one in one fifty I face one of them? It’ll be fine.”

“In seventy-four.” Perceptor glares at his quizzical look. “One in seventy four. Nine percent odds that you face one of them in the first three fights. Nineteen in your forth. Thirty-six by round five, if someone doesn’t slag you first! Those aren’t good odds, Drift!”

“Those’re fine odds, Perce.” Springer leans back, suddenly looking a lot more comfortable. “Slag, he’s not gonna make it to the third round unless his matchups are terrible. I’ve taken ten-percent odds on stuff a lot riskier than a Prime-run tournament…”

Bolstered by the sudden support from Springer, Drift grins. “I don’t need to take it far, Perce. Just want to get a taste for it - know what I’m getting myself into for next time. Besides…” and the grim keen blade of Perceptor’s one true weakness, maths, springs to his hand like a readied sword, “seventy-four-to-one odds just means that seventy-three of the other guys are gonna get squished first.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Drift --- Metroplex

The thin green line that ties their names together transfixes him - here, in the first bracket, where the odds should have worked for him. Perceptor has turned back away from him, snubbing him, vibrating with rage - except no, he’s not, Perceptor is shaking, field terrified, optics wide as they stare helplessly at the same line. 

“Drift -” He chokes the word out, voice weak, and Drift touches him, drags him closer, even as his own hands tremble. There’s a pit in his tanks - regret? Sorrow? Grief? Fear? He isn’t sure.

Springer’s comm echoes against his processor, but he dismisses it without a thought - without reply. The matchups are released here, first, a joor before they go to press, to avoid entrants being confronted by the media before they _know_ \- but Springer will know soon enough.

He drags Perceptor back into the crowd, pushing through the tanks and warframes. Every mech entered, except offworlders and the metrotitans themselves. Pushes through to the door, and drags Perceptor onto the street, shoving him until he starts to move under his own power, and they’re both running towards the _Xanthium_. Ignoring the reporters who try to push in front of them, the handful of other contestants who have moved outside.

By the time they make it aboard, Springer’s worried face shifting hazily through tunnelled vision, Drift is shaking so badly he can’t stand. Fear floods his circuits like ice - and then something else burns through his cables, and he can’t stay conscious at all.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You drugged me.” 

His voice is groggy as he wakes up, helm pounding from the sedative. 

“No,” and Springer’s voice is entirely too loud, cutting across his processor like a knife, “I didn’t. I drugged _both_ of you. Perceptor is still out. What the slag, Drift?”

Drift takes a moment to check his chronometer. It’s been just over a joor. “Have you checked the brackets?”

“No, I was too busy worrying over my idiot teamma-” He cuts off. “Oh. Oh. Oooh.”

“Yeah. Keep it down, would you?”

A warm hand presses against Drift’s shoulder, field pulsing comfort. “I’m sorry, Drift.” Springer’s voice is lower, soft. Concerned. “You can’t…”

“Can’t enter a Festival ever again, if I back out now.” He sags into the berth with a groan, stressed cables going slack with exhaustion. “I’ve gotta at least get in the ring with him. Hopefully…”

He hesitates. It’s not a good look, not worthy of Mortilus, but… “Hopefully I can toss myself to the ground and give up before he steps on me? I mean, the titans… they’re not supposed to _want_ to hurt mechs, right?”

“You could just… not go.” Springer’s voice is hesitant. “I mean… it’d be rough, a lot of bad attention, but… everyone would understand why you did it. And there’s other ways -”

“No.” Drift swallows. His throat is like lead. “Don’t start talking about that, mech. There’s not. And - and I don’t wanna be thinking about it. I’m not gonna back out. I have to stay focused. I need you not to - not to shake that for me.”

It’s not a fair thing to ask, not really. Springer is one of his best friends, and he’s just worried - for him, and isn’t that a change, something new after centuries on the streets with no one to worry for him - but Drift can’t afford to doubt, not now.

Perceptor’s field brushes against his, the soft explorative touch of a mech regaining awareness, and Drift steels himself.

There’s no place for doubt in Mortilus’ game.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Metrotitans bestride the arena like juggernauts, a constant, looming presence behind the stadium seats. They stand frozen - tireless behemoths - as swarms of seeker-framed medics perform the final pre-combat checks, as ITL fueling towers decouple from their tanks and are rolled back, as the whirl of other fighters below them go through their own checks.

They can’t have met before - Iacon’s titan hasn’t travelled outside of the Torus States in living memory, Scorponok has never left Kaon - but if Drift didn’t know that, he’d say they were glaring at each other.

Then Metroplex, with a slow grace that belies his mass, lowers his helm and fixes that same glare on the field below.

It sends a chill through his spark. He can’t move - can’t find cover under an awning, with a medic’s careful fingers still joint-deep in his engines - and can’t escape the feeling he’s being _sought out_ , identified and marked for death by the titan. His picture is public - more public that he wanted it to be, but once word got out who he was fighting in the first round, that was a lost cause - and Metroplex knows who he’s looking for.

He wants to run. Only inertia is keeping him here - the last terrible force binding him to the earth. In a way, it’s lucky he can’t hide - if he could, he might find it in himself to start running, and if he ran, he wouldn’t stop. Momentum, too, is a powerful thing.

The medic clears him, claps him on the shoulder, sends him into a line. There’s a kind but worried look in his optics - the medics are impartial, ostensibly, but the red-plated mech knows who he’s being sent to fight. It’s all the pity Drift has time for.

The lines are silent. Silent as they finish filling out, as the Lord Protector rises to read the traditional prayers, as the first combatants stride out into the field. It’s a sacred time, for contemplation, to steel oneself for the battle ahead.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, from somewhere behind. He doesn’t turn. A field to the left of him pulses assurance, and he lets gratitude slip into his own. He’s not alone, here - every mech with him had the same fears, the same worried friends. He’s just the one unlucky enough to come up the loser.

The one-in-seventy-four.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first few bouts slip by in a haze.

Some of them are beautiful - savage and elegant displays of violence between expert fighters, using the new scale of their arena to terrible effect. Some are tragic - one-sided bouts, the weaker overwhelmed helplessly by the stronger, ground into the dust. Some are sad - two bots not in any way equipped for what will be next.

Drift doesn’t have time to register beyond that. He doesn’t need to - doesn’t need to bother collecting data, analyzing threats. There will be time after - or there won’t be. Either way, there will be no second round.

He already knows he’s going to be solidly in the middle group. Already knows which side of that brutal equation he’s going to end up on. And then there are three bouts until his -

\- and then two - 

\- and then one - 

\- and the hand on his shoulder is guiding him on, an anonymous benefactor pushing him onto the field when his own processor is too blank with fright to move. He steps forward on autopilot, walking to the middle of the arena as a mech not in control of his own frame - 

And Metroplex strides to meet him.

The titan doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t even falter - just steps, over the seating in front of him, seven thousand mechs bypassed in a single stride, and Drift doesn’t even come up past the edge of his pede.

Drift looks up, up, up. There’s a strange numbness to it. He isn’t afraid, not anymore - just like he’s not afraid when he’s falling, with Springer diving to catch him, and there’s nothing that can happen but be caught or not be caught and nothing he can do will affect which happens. Nothing he can do will affect how this ends, and as he meets the titan’s optics, it makes him fearless.

The referee clears the field, and distantly, Drift hears him call for the match. It hardly registers. Cold blue optics look down at him, and his world narrows until they’re all that’s left.

“Hello, Metroplex.”

It barely registers that he’s the one who says it. 

“Hello, Drift.”

It’s the first time he’s ever heard a titan speak, and the air rumbles with it, like the charged air of a thunderhead. It vibrates through to his core.

“Gonna step on me?”

The mech who’s spoken must have _unbelievable brass lugs,_ and it takes a moment to realize that it’s him, again. Not so unbelievable, then - he’s just to stupid to live.

Metroplex, far, far above him, laughs. The world underpede vibrates with it. Behind Metroplex, the ITL sways.

“I will not step on you.” Metroplex is suddenly in motion - not quick, over the distances he has to travel, but far faster than he has any right to be, dropping to one knee with no effort at all in a movement that makes the ground beneath them jump with shock. A hand - broad as a building all itself, larger across than the _Xanthium_ \- reaches out, and plucks him from the arena’s floor with no effort at all. It draws him towards that terrible face inexorably, until he is close enough to see the delicate platework of a living city above him - until he is close enough to be seen.

Close enough to teek warm affection in a vast, overwhelming field.

Metroplex stills - opens his hand, and lets Drift tumble onto it, scramble to his pedes. There isn’t even the faintest shake; the hand is like a city street underpede, firm and solid. When Drift looks back up, Metroplex blocks out the whole sky.

“You should shoot me,” the titan rumbles, and Drift’s mind goes blank.

“What?” He stares, rebooting his audials, up at the larger mech, who cocks his helm, considering.

“This is a battle,” he offers, helpfully. Drift continues to gape. “For Mortilus. I am sorry that it shall not be a long one, for you. I have… consulted. With some of my fellow cities. They agreed with me that it would not be fair to you, to defeat you without a chance to fight back.”

The metrotitan stares down at him, as if he’s being the most reasonable mech in the world right now. Drift stares back. Maybe he is.

“I don’t have a gun with me.” It’s the dumbest thing he could possibly have to say right now. It’s all he can think of.

Metroplex seems taken aback. The titan - titan! - looks down at him, and hesitates.

“You could… claw me?” His voice is an uncertain _rain_ , like acid pouring down on a sheet metal roof, the space below filling with the drumming will-it-won’t-it of an unsafe shelter. “Ah…”

“Stab?” Drift almost squeaks the word, helpless to stop himself offering the suggestion even realizing how absurd it is to say. “I use swords.”

“Stab.” Metroplex latches onto the word, relieved. “Yes. You should stab me. It would not be fair, otherwise.” He gestures with his other hand, a long, slow, arching movement, at his chestplate. “I will not hurt you.”

Drift looks up, up, up, at the bright blue optics, no longer half so frozen. The titan’s field teeks all around him, warm and kind and sorry. His blade is in his hand - when did he draw it? - and suddenly, in a surge of wild, bright courage, he’s racing forwards, reaching the edge of the hand before the titan can react, sword in both hands, pointed downward, and it’s nowhere near long enough to reach even the outermost lines but there’s a crack between two plates -

Drift leaps, and drives the blade down. It catches on nothing, and he’s falling, falling, falling - 

But like a tide of steel, the titan’s other hand catches him in return, sprawling out on the warm metal, lifting him back up. He doesn’t get up - sprawls on the metal, arms spread-eagle, until the hand underneath stops moving.

“Yield -” he croaks -

And the roar of the crowd can finally filter in through the rushing in his audials and the warm, rolling thunder of Metroplex’s laugh.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s lowered to the ground gently, hand tilting so he can slide off the blue metal and onto his pedes. A roar of approval greets him - or Metroplex, it’s impossible to tell - as does a group of flustered, worried-looking medics. They rush him off the field in a blur of movement - the largest of them wastes no time, sweeping him off his pedes and _sprinting_ towards the medical tent, already scanning. Distantly, he can hear the thrum of Seeker engines - performing, no doubt, the same scans on his opponent, with significantly less urgency.

He’s almost tossed onto the berth, surrounded by medics, buzzing about, scanning, checking his coolant and fuel levels. He almost snaps at them - it was one fight, not even a fight, not even a _joor_ \- but they seem to fall back, one by one, relieved as they receive the results of the scans and reassure themselves that he’s uninjured.

He can hardly blame them - he would be doing the same thing, if it had been Springer or Perceptor in the metrotitan’s grip.

Finally, they seem satisfied - he’s allowed to roll off the berth to his pedes, ushered to the door of the medical tent. Outside, he can hear the roars of the crowd as another battle rages - but as he moves to push open the flap, something wraps around his arm.

He looks down at the datacable in confusion, and then follows it back to the source.

A red-visored mech stares back at him, the broad, flat panels of a datacaste framing what looks like a carrier’s tapedeck. The mech is more a mish-mash of details than any one frametype, however - he has a warframe’s battlemask, and Drift can see the faint outlines of integrated weaponry on the cable holding him.

A combatant, then.

“I’m already out of the tournament, mech.” He raises his other arm obligingly, not eager to be attacked by an overly-competitive warframe. It’s not a common occurrence, at the Festivals, but tensions run high. Accidents happen. “Not gonna fight you. I’m just going to go look for my friends, alright?”

The warframe’s helm cocks to the side. This far away, there’s no reading his field - and the battlemask makes his face unreadable. Even his visor is disturbingly unexpressive - flat and bright.

“Soundwave: is not here to fight.” The voice that greets him is irregular, the syntax even more bizarre than Metroplex’s. Soundwave - the word is glyphed like a name - doesn’t move. “Drift’s presence: requested. Soundwave: will accompany.”

“Ah…” Drift tugs at the cable around his arm, but the gesture is half-hearted. The other mech is _strong_. “I’m sorry, my friends will be worried about me. I have to go -”

There’s a long, slow pause. Then: “Springer, Perceptor: alerted. Drift’s absence: excused. Drift: will accompany.” There’s a careful but insistent tug on his wrist. 

“How did you -” It’s not worth arguing about. Clearly someone with means has decided that they need to speak to him - a rich sponsor looking for clues for their sponsee’s battle with Metroplex, probably. Or a noblemech on a lark. It’s not a matter of avoiding this, then - just a matter of seeing what he can squeeze out of them for the pleasure. He’s been a mercenary long enough to understand how this game is played. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”

Soundwave… doesn’t seem pleased, by his acquiescence, any more than he seemed frustrated by his resistance. Even getting closer, as his arm is released and he turns to follow the larger frame, he can’t feel so much as a hint of a field. The effect is disconcerting.

Soundwave guides him out another door, around behind the stands. The medical tent is closest to the Prime’s Stand, where the nobility and their guests sit - it’s obvious that he was right about who’s summoning him.

Two guards - not just guards, Vanguard - stand at the base of the stairs to the upper levels. Soundwave brushes past them without hesitation, and they don’t spare more than a glance for Drift - whoever Soundwave works for, he’s high-ranked, not just a noble. Or in the confidence of the Prime, for Soundwave to be so instantly recognized.

He’s burningly aware of the swords on his hips, all of a sudden, but no one turns to demand he remove them.

Soundwave leads him out onto a broad platform, and Drift has only a moment to realize _where he is_. The Prime’s Box. To his left, he can see the Lord Prime himself, in quiet conversation with a red-chevroned Praxian in white-and-black paint, both pairs of optics locked on the battlefield - to his right, the Lord High Protector, sitting on a low dais, a visored Polyhexian beside him, red optics locked on - on him.

Soundwave hasn’t stopped, and Drift barely even registers that he _has_ , frozen in the Lord High Protector’s gaze. Soundwave slinks to the other two mechs, and the Lord High Protector’s gaze turns to him for only a moment - the gleaming grey mech says something, gestures, and the Polyhexian darts to Drift’s side with a grin.

“Hi, I’m Jazz. Pleasure to meet you!” The warm field that envelopes him is a relief, after Soundwave’s stillness. Still, Drift can’t help but feel nervous at the sudden attention from a mech that is obviously the Lord High Protector’s companion, in some fashion. He doesn’t resist when a hand reaches out to encompass his own. “Megatron wanted to talk to you. It’s alright - he doesn’t bite.”

Jazz laughs. It doesn’t help.

He’s guided up to the dais, and sinks, helplessly, to his knees before the Chosen of Mortilus, the Lord-Militant of Cybertron. Megatron’s gaze is on him, again, he can feel it like a red glow on the back of his neck - but the Lord High Protector only chuckles.

“Rise, Drift. Take a seat. You fought well.” Jazz has to half-manhandle him onto the chair - it takes more than a moment for the words to sink in - but he manages to scramble back to reality enough to not collapse into it. Megatron’s optics are still on him, amused - there’s the faintest hint of a smirk on otherwise impassive faceplates.

“You’ve had a view few would envy of a Metrotitan, Drift. How are you faring?” The Lord High Protector’s gaze, at last, returns to the combat below, but Drift is no less aware of his focus.

And there’s no point in denying how poorly it went - not when every mech here saw the battle. Not even a battle. “I’m uninjured, my Lord. Other than that…” He shrugs helplessly.

“You did well.” The words, in the Lord High Protector’s steady, confident voice, make him jerk a little in surprise. There’s not even a hint of dishonesty to them.

“I was grappled in the first fifteen clicks of the match, my Lord. Metroplex asked me to attack him.” Drift grimaces. “It… wasn’t the showing I was hoping for. Sir.”

“Did you expect to fair better?” Now there is a hint of surprise in the Lord’s voice. Drift hesitates.

“I had expected to have a few rounds before I fought a titan, my Lord. If I made it that far. Not -” He knows it’s too casual, but he gestures helplessly. The Lord High Protector doesn’t seem to mind.

“Ah. Fair enough, I suppose.” The Lord High Protector’s gaze returns to him. “Still, I think you do not give yourself enough credit, Drift. I will be honest with you - I had not expected you to even show up, today, let alone to stare down Metroplex. ‘Gonna step on me?’” - his voice does a reasonable mimicry of Drift’s tone, but the words, in the Lord High Protector’s deeper timbre, are even more jarring - “honestly. I half-thought you had glitched.”

“I was too scared to be scared,” Drift admits, and the Lord High Protector nods. 

“I have felt it.”

It’s an admission he can’t help but be surprised by - but then, maybe he shouldn’t be. Lord Megatron is the veteran of many wars, was a general long before Optimus Prime ascended and claimed him as Protector - there must have been a first campaign.

Megatron turns his attention back to the battlefield, lets Drift contemplate that for a moment. It’s a while before he speaks again.

“What would you have asked as a boon, if you had won?”

Drift starts a bit at the sudden question. “Ah, my Lord -”

“Enough of that.” The Lord High Protector waves a hand dismissively. “My name is Megatron. Use it.”

He pauses, voice softening. “I know it is not usual to speak of it outside of friends. I am merely… curious. It was enough for you to enter the tournament. It was enough for you to show up, here, today, to protect your ability to enter again, even if it meant staring down a metrotitan. You do not need to tell me, if you would prefer to keep it private. I will not be offended.”

“I wanted a commission in the Vanguard.” Megatron’s optics turn back to him, bright with surprise. “I’m… a mercenary, at the moment. I’ve got a good crew with me. But I’d like something more stable - figured if I could win the tournament, I’d be able to handle it.”

“That’s…” Megatron seems actually confused, which is at once gratifying and unnerving. Drift hesitates, but when the Lord High Protector doesn’t speak, he adds:

“It’s a very traditional request, my - Megatron. Sir.”

“I’m aware.” And he must be - he’s presided over dozens of Festivals, stood at the Prime’s shoulder for dozens more; he’s granted tens of commissions himself. It’s a popular choice. “Still… it isn’t what I was expecting. The courage you showed commends you, Drift. I had expected a lover to have inspired such boldness.”

That’s enough to make Drift hesitate. “There… is a mech.”

That gets a chuckle from Megatron. “Oh?”

Drift shouldn’t talk about it - shouldn’t ramble to the Lord High Protector about his awkward, millenia-old crush - but he can’t help it. “He’s a medic. I love him.” 

Megatron’s field brushes over his, encouraging.

“I was - I was onlined in the slums, sir. Grew up in the Dead End. I… wasn’t much more than an Empty.” It’s embarrassing to admit - even now, millenia after, he can feel the stains on his plating when the other mech looks at him. He presses on. “But there was a medic who had a little clinic down there. He… I got jumped, one night. A cop picked me up, brought me to his place, and they got me cleaned up. Helped me get off the boosters, got my life back on track. He sponsored me at one of the temples, they taught me to fight - I’ve been a mercenary ever since. It’s a good life.” 

He vents, heavily.

“So why not ask for the Right of Courtship? You love him - surely you could convince him to love you back, given a whole vorn?” Megatron’s voice is gentle.

“I couldn’t.” Drift can’t help the helplessness in his voice. “I got clean, but he - he got important. Powerful. It’d be a scandal, a mech like me asking to court him - and he doesn’t deserve that slag. Sir.” He flushes a little, at the Dead End slang leaking into his words in front of a noble.

“I’ve heard worse.” Megatron hums a little, considering. “Ratchet does love you, you know. He’d probably take your spark right on the stage, if you let him.”

Drift gapes like a turbocarp.

“K-kkk-k-k-k-thwip what?” is the only reply he’s capable of, his whole processor resetting. “How did you -”

“He’s the Chief Medical Officer of Iacon, Drift. He’s my bondmate’s Amica.” Megatron looks over at him, optic ridge raised. “Get a few energexes into him, he won’t shut up about you. Hasn’t stopped going on about you entering the Festival in orns. He was very upset.”

Drift clicks, helplessly. Jazz sidles up to him, a datapad is pushed into his hands, but he doesn’t even look at it. “Sign that.” He does, not even glancing down.

“It’s alright, Drift. You’ll have plenty of time to think about making it up to him. I would suggest keeping the proposal a quiet affair - he can be a private mech. A few of your friends, his Amica - a nice spot in the gardens, perhaps? Anywhere else would be a security nightmare, though I’m sure Optimus would be happy to accommodate. He'll want a word, when you have a chance.”

“What?” Drift’s processor is blank. He’s not supposed to propose to Ratchet, but he can only half remember why. “No - it’s a scandal -” his vocalizer resets again.

“A scandal? For a member of the Primal Vanguard to propose to his lover?” Megatron laughs. “Of course not. I thought that was why you were requesting the commission?”

“- What?” 

He can feel the teasing in the Lord High Protector’s field, but his processor is lagging - there’s something he’s missed, and he feels like he’s teetering on the brink of a crash.

“Your commission?” Megatron’s words don’t make any sense, and when he gestures, Drift looks dazedly down at the datapad in his hand, screen blank from lack of input. Jazz’s hand touches his shoulder, steadying him as he wobbles, and the Polyhexian is saying something, but Drift only has enough threads for the Lord High Protector’s words, now, and not even enough to make sense of that.

His fingers are too thick - he struggles with the pad for a moment. Then the screen lights back up, and he stares down at the glyphs on it, at _his_ glyph on it, the world shifting back into alignment around him.

He looks back up, bright-opticked, at Megatron, who laughs.

“What?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t want a mech with the _absolute titanium bearings_ to stab a titan, Drift?” The Lord High Protector chuckles again, voice warm with fondness. “I can teach any mech to fight. I can have any frame that will take it reformatted into a warrior’s. But I can’t forge that sort of spark. You’ll do fine, I’m sure.”

He grins again, and this time, there’s tooth to it.

“And if it finally resolves this nonsense moping of Ratchet’s, so’s the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I had fun with this one. I wanted to show at least some of what goes on in Metroplex's fights, and Dratchet is my jam, so I figured what the hell. This chapter goes out to SlimReaper, whose fic Risk It All is amazing and was one of my earliest forays into Dratchet - it really defined a lot about how I see their relationship, so thank you so much! I had a lot of fun writing my idiot lad, even if Ratchet didn't show up at all...
> 
> “Seventy-four-to-one odds just means that seventy-three of the other guys are gonna get squished first.” LOL. Yeah, Drift is out here, proving hardcore that just because you’re a computer _doesn’t mean you’re any good at math._ And he says it so confidently, too - the main reason I cut the scene there is because it ends with just several joors of Perceptor sputtering furiously, followed by an exhaustive, angry explanation of how statistics work.
> 
> You may be asking, “Aard, did the metrotitans really get together for a roundtable on how exactly they should fight the other combatants, ending in them deciding that eh, everybody gets _one_?” Well, the answer is, yeah, pretty much exactly. Scorponok and Metroplex aren’t on speaking terms, but Trypticon, Crystal City, and Fort Max all got together with them to hash out what should be going on. They - beings of great wisdom and power, though not great at relating to anything smaller than a city block - decided that, since they’re all very invested in not being actively feared by their inhabitants, they should let everybody get a few hits in as a show of good faith. Of course, to someone regular-mech-sized, this only makes them look even more unflinchingly invulnerable, and no one has ever felt _less_ afraid after watching someone just shrug off a blast from a diffusion cannon, but it made a lot of sense to them at the time and that’s what matters. I had a lot of fun writing the experience of fighting a titan - trying to frame it in a way that got across how BIG they are without losing the interactions.
> 
> And... gah, I just love writing Megatron. He's such a dick. Not as big a dick as Soundwave, who wouldn't have given Drift a straight answer at gunpoint b/c he gets catharsis out of fucking with people, but still an asshole for the lulz. In this story - WHICH IS DEFINITELY NOT GOING TO EXPAND BEYOND THIS ONE, FIVE CHAPTER STORY ABOUT THE FESTIVAL OF THE FIVE, NO YOU, I'M NOT WORLDBUILDING NO SIRREE I'm going with Jazz and Soundwave as Megatron's military aides - in charge of Special Operations and Communications, respectively, with Starscream happily off-world in charge of the airforce - and Prowl and Ultra Magnus as Optimus' loyal civilian aids - in charge of civic planning and law enforcement, and Ratchet in charge of larger healthcare initiatives as Chief Medic at Iacon General. They all get together and get smashed every so often, especially when Starscream is in-system, and they all get along swimmingly, but the gossip is terrible. Everyone knows everything - Starscream wants to be the Seeker creme in a Prime-Protector sandwich, Soundwave and Jazz are together and Prowl spends half his time pining over the pair of them but none of them are willing to make the first move towards a trine, and Ratchet has a long-standing mutual _thing_ going with a mercenary he met back in Polyhex that he gets real sad about if you ask him about.
> 
> And of course, I STOPPED to SLEEP and THOUGHT ABOUT IT, so I'm now like 1.5k words into the Sunstorm chapter. Why is shit like this so much easier to write than anything I've been actually trying to post? I LIKE the Batmech fic! I've been TRYING to publish more of Getting Out Alive! Why is the god-damned metrotitan crack so easy to get through? GAH.


	3. A Matter of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunstorm does not enter the Festivals of the Five for glory, or seeking victory - but enter he does, every single one, and he has for millennia. 
> 
> He doesn't appreciate this interloper, who shames the glory of Mortilus with his cowardice.

The seeker rises, brilliant, like a firebrand, gold and shining and furious, to meet his optics.

“In Mortilus’ name -”

It snarls the words at him, and he regards it, impassive. Against the edges of his field, he can feel its anger - he pulses back, wordlessly, his love for it.

He does love it. Loves them all, so much. It has been good, to see them all so close, with his own optics, not his cameras. It has been good to touch them, and feel their fields against him, and burn away their fear with his love.

Even if he does not get to punch Scorponok, the Festival will be worth it for this.

The seeker is still snarling at him, rage pushing back against his love. He refocuses on it.

“- this farce of a combat. I will burn your shameful cowardice away in Primus’ light -”

Not so important, then. Eventually, it will want to speak to him. Or it will attack - and as Metroplex brushes it’s field again, he feels more certain that that is the path it intends.

He hums, softly, with pleasure. He does not want to hurt any of his children, but this one is so small - he will not have to. It will be happy that it has had the chance to try - he is happy, that it would find such joy in throwing itself against him, in the savagery of battle. It is not weak - here, three rounds into the eight of the tournament, none of the surviving fighters are.

He is so proud of them. Of all of them - they have done so well, been so brave to even come here.

The seeker’s field draws tighter around it - tighter, tighter. Then, it falls silent, for only a fraction of a moment - and _ignites._

Metroplex feels a vague moment of surprise - the fireball rushes towards him, but there is no pain in the seeker’s field, only the anger, and he understands at once that the mech is sigma-gifted. Sensors facing the onslaught begin to sound, alarms going off all across the face of him - warning of heat, radiation, solar overexposure -

He silences all of them with a thought. They are not for him - they are for his little ones, and here, he carries no other sparks inside himself. He does not need to fear for them at all, needs only concern himself with this one, furious, beautiful child.

The seeker streaks towards him, like light itself, too fast for any normal mech to react to - but he is the mind of a city, bent all at once to this one thing, and it is not so hard to calculate the angles, the speeds, to sweep the littler mech out of the sky. He catches it in a palm, the suddenness of it enough to daze the firebrand, and regards it carefully as it lays there, vents and frame surging with radioactive fire, almost blinding to half his sensors with the heat and light and nuclear flame of it.

It snarls up at him.

He can feel his paint crack underneath it. It is so hot - hot enough to soften his armor, just a bit, enough to leave the pricks of flaming claws melted like little specks across his palm where they press against it.

It might be enough to hurt him, were he not forged for it - for the blinding heat of ballistic re-entry, for the sun-borne glow of extra-atmospheric rads. In a lifetime, he has not risen from Cybertron’s crust - her people have never called for him as ship - but it is no less what he is, ship and city and home wherever Primus guides his children.

He curls one finger inward, paint blistering away, to stroke the little seeker’s helm. It hisses, field indignant. He cannot help but smile down at it. It glares.

Then suddenly, it is moving again, leaping free of his grasp - thrusters scorch his metal, leaving black trails as carbon oxidizes. It soars upward, circling his frame, a bright whip of heat orbiting him, and Metroplex tracks it, barely registering that it is shouting, again.

It will come back to him, eventually. When it has worn out it’s fury, perhaps, and sated it’s desire for battle. For now, he does not let it concern him, beyond an idle, slow swipe, enough to give it something to dive away from - it will satisfy itself in time.

He pushes joy into his field, and delights in the anger that greets it. He will wait.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

A thousand feet below, Ironhide gestures up at the sky. 

“Ah, Optimus, should we… be doing something? Seeker’s gonna get himself deactivated up there, if he’s not careful.”

Optimus looks up, at the fireball boiling around the metrotitan’s frame in a fiery wash of golden light, shouting about the will of Primus. Looks to his right, at his Lord Protector, the Chosen of Mortilus, unconcerned but deep in conversation with a white and red mech with elegant, arching finials. Looks back up at Ironhide’s worried face, optics tracking the seeker’s movements with growing concern.

“It will be fine, I’m sure, Ironhide.” There is a roar in the air, like gas being subsumed, like a shuttle’s thrusters igniting all the way across the sky, and screams from the crowd. Metroplex watches, unhurried. “I’m sure.”

He isn’t.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunstorm whirls away from the brute’s slow, lumbering attack - so much more ungainly than before. It’s mocking him, he knows, but that mockery doesn’t sting at all. He is less than it - should be less than it. He does not presume to the idea that a Seeker’s frame is equal to a Titan’s, that a spark that is only one mech is equal to a city.

If the metrotitan insulted only him, it would be nothing. It is the offense to the gods that brings his gift to the surface, indignant rage burning free of his spark and manifesting as divine fire, a halo of nuclear judgement. To dare taint the Festivals, to dare _enter_ without intending to glory Mortilus in righteous combat -

He had been thrilled, when he had seen Metroplex’s name added to the lists - exalted his choice, when the newsfeeds had spat nothing but venom. To see one of the Titans rise in holy rapture, glorying the Spark they had received through Primus’ divine will, glorying their frame in sublime worship of Mortilus… it did not matter, that he could not hope to prevail against such power. He did not enter the festivals for his own glory.

And then… the disappointment. Shoulder to shoulder, in the lines, he felt his fellow fighter’s fear as Drift strode onto the arena, met the titan’s optics with a warrior’s courage - but the metrotitan spat upon the swordsmech’s virtue, seized him without battle, _insulted him_ by not even vanquishing him boldly but inviting attack as if Drift was a child playing warrior -

Well. 

The second battle was no less a disgrace. Sunstorm could hardly focus on his own fight, thinking of it, and the fury lent him strength - led him to the victory that would let him confront the titan. Mortilus’ will, then, that he should teach the other mech _respect!_

And yet… thus far, he has failed. The titan’s field mocks him - teasing warmth that doesn’t recoil from his righteous anger, paired with a stupid, fond _smirk_ that tells him that Metroplex _knows_ he could defeat him, easily, with a gesture, even, and is _choosing_ to draw this out -

He can see, on Metroplex’s hand, the scars of his fury. The titan had plucked him from the air, and Sunstorm hoped - _prayed_ \- that he would be defeated; tossed to the arena floor like a broken toy, or even crushed between the titan’s fingers. Not to death, if Primus willed it - but at least enough to prove that the metrotitan had a fighting spirit beneath too-dense plating!

And yet, the titan hardly seemed to realize his own power - barely touched him, as his fire melted plating and scoured nanochromites! Even when he dug into the plating, carving furrows in softened metal with his _talons_ , Metroplex didn’t fight back - as if the fury of true battle had struck him _dumb!_

The anger growing in him burns hotter at the thought, at the other mech’s cowardice, unworthy in the optics of Mortilus, of Primus, of the Five - at the idea that this coward spark would _win_ , not through any of the virtues, but through sheer, gigantic size -

And something inside him ignites in a roar that blinds even him, a supernova star at the core of his spark, whiting out the air around him, deafening, encompassing, consuming everything that he is -

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Metroplex watches the firebrand as it rises before him, rocketing not in it’s former, elegant swirls, but in a slow, straight ascent, as if it fights against the bonds of more than gravity. It glows brighter, now, heat and light building against his sensors as if he was turning into the face of a great star - rads tick up, and he spares a moment to deploy the delicate internal shielding that will protect his processors from even threshold-level radiation. 

It is saying something, and he tries to hear it - but now, the roar of heat sublimation is enough to drown out its voice. He hopes it has not chosen now to speak to him.

It reaches level with his optics, still intensifying, and, for a terrible, lovely moment, hangs in the air. He cannot see the mech anymore - only his light, as if he has burned himself away for this.

Another moment, burning, beautiful, and he loves this child _so much_ \- and it dives, a meteorite streaking towards him with the grace and elegance of a shuttle in re-entry.

He catches it, not wanting it to dash itself across his plates and be harmed.

It burns him properly, this time. Not just cosmetic damage - it burns him, heat warping joints, scouring connectors, boiling deep-laid coolant lines. He does not - can not - drop it, not so high above the world, so he holds it as plating curls and splits, as metal runs and fuses. It is painful, so he turns off the pain.

Slowly, slowly, the heat dims. It is only little - it could not burn so bright for long, and it has tired itself. Eventually, it flickers out, and lies, cold and panting, on his ruined palm.

“You have done very well.” 

He smiles down at it - it has. He is so proud - he had not expected any of the little ones to hurt him, but this one has been so bold, fought so hard, poured himself so fully into the battle…

It glares back up at him, but when he pushes love at it, it’s field is only tired. It will not fight him again.

“What do you want?”

The question is snarled weakly, dentae bared. He stares down at it in vague confusion - but if it wishes to talk, now, he is delighted to.

“I wish to punch Scorponok.” He smiles, letting it feel his earnestness. 

Its whole field ripples with shock, as if it hadn’t expected that answer. He has grown used to that response - it is much like Optimus’. He isn’t sure why it should surprise them so much.

“Wha-” It shutters it’s optics for a moment. “Why?”

“He is obstinate. And a fool.”

Distantly, he registers Skorponok’s thunder of displeasure - but he will not retract the characterization. It is true.

The little mech scrambles to his knees, optics bright. “You want to fight Scorponok? That’s why you entered?” He regards it for a moment - it seems… delighted. Pleasure spikes through its field for the first time, and he gladly pushes back with his own satisfaction.

“Of course.” He pauses. “I regret that I could not press you harder, little one. I did not wish to harm you.” 

It scrambles backward, tipping off his hand before he can catch it, field still bright. “No, no -” It has a brilliant smile, bright against its own scorched-grey plating, as it reaches the edge and tumbles, jets catching to lower it gently to the ground. It throws its hands up, still bright-opticked with excitement. 

“I yield. I look forward to your battle, Metroplex! For the glory of Mortilus!”

He can only gaze after it happily as it scrambles towards the medics, who are already rushing to greet it. The high drone of the Seeker medics approaching fills his audials, as they scan him, swoop to land on his injured hand, speaking in high-pitched Vosian too quickly for him to bother following.

It was a good fight. His little ones are so brave.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunstorm’s whole processor burns hot as the medics work on his damaged frame. The realization - shameful really - that he has so misjudged another of Primus’ perfect creations would be painful, if he were not so filled with joy. 

Metroplex - no coward. No shameful wretch to dishonor the Festival of Mortilus! A warrior unmatched, merciful in victory, awaiting a worthy foe to unleash his power in true battle!

It seems obvious, now, having faced the giant. For Metroplex to have fought him - fought any of them - would be no glorious combat, no sublime conquest! It would be like striking a youngling - nothing but shameful, no matter how the newspark raged. 

And to have borne the fullness of his gift… the thought of the scarred hand beneath him fills his spark with warmth. Metroplex… to have sustained such damage, and still be full of virtuous mercy… it speaks of a spark steeped in Primus’ kindness, in joyous love of all the Five’s resplendent creation.

He sighs a little, sagging into the gentle touches of the medics as they worry over his frame. The soreness of heat - the ache of exhausted reserves, the itch of burned-off nanochromites - none of them matter in the face of spark-deep satisfaction. He has proven himself. He has fought the best mech he has ever met, been conquered wholly by a far more worthy spark… 

It is enough. He sinks into dreamless recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's two completely new perspectives on this whole clusterfuck! Dragonofdispair did a really great fic involving Sunstorm sort of accidentally winning the Festival, and it gave me lots of fun thinks about Sunstorm as the weird little dude he is, so this one's for them! I prefer the sort of comedy-fuckup Sunstorm myself, but their serious!Sunstorm is amazing - I just could never write it!
> 
> Either way, he's here, and he's smoked off about this asshole who showed up to the Festival of Mortilus and then didn't smack the shit out of people. Up to and including him - he's down, he wants to fucking rumble! Metroplex, of course, is less than impressed.
> 
> Actually, to be fair, Metroplex is pretty impressed. Sunstorm is _feisty_. 
> 
> And really, really dumb. He came way closer to dying than even he realized - not from Metroplex, but just by burning himself out. It's a Sigma ability, not divine judgement, and he can 100% off himself if he's dumb... he's just also really, really sturdy.
> 
> I did some stuff from Metroplex's POV here, as I'm sure you could tell! I love the thought that even though they're for sure Cybertronians, metrotitans don't really... relate... to regular-sized mechs? They love them, for sure! They think they're great! But they're super-paternal - their whole existence is to nourish and protect these little sparks, and they love them so much, and when one of them does something impressive, they're just _so proud_ , look at the little bitty mechs getting stuff done...
> 
> But at the same time, they're not really able to think of smaller mechs, in general, as _people._ They're ephemeral, shortlived and constantly moving, and a titan can slip into recharge and awake and the whole world is changed around them in the blink of a century. Other titans, on the other hand - now those are real folks. From their housings in the cities, they have a constant data-net, meters-thick cables that tie them together, letting them live and work and socialize amongst themselves. It's only here, wandering around separate from that, that Metroplex even bothers to divide them into individuals rather than single points of tracked data, hence him referring to all other mechs with the otherwise-pejorative "it". He just... doesn't really think about them as full beings who might object to objectification.
> 
> That said, he does have some friends! There's Optimus, who has the Matrix - he knows the Matrix, he's been protecting it a long time, and he knows all the mechs who carried it; they come and talk to him, Optimus more often and more kindly than most. He knows Kup, who has been alive longer than Fortress Maximus and so is at least persistent enough to remember, and Rung, who he has never not known, he thinks, though he can't remember where they first met. And... That's about it. But that's three whole friends who he remembers to think about as real people, which is a lot, for a metrotitan! He's considered breathtakingly, almost scandalously social by the rest of them.
> 
> Alas, we draw to the end - next chapter is after the tournament, with Metroplex the winner, unless I think of another dope idea. I may fill this out a little more after, although I'm fo sho not gonna do the fight with Scorp, I think - I'm not gonna pretend I can come up with a giant-robot slamfest more dope than the one you could imagine, so just insert one of the better fights from the Bay Movies and we'll call it a day, aight?


End file.
